The Book of Incarum

Flight of Fiends: Chapter 1

Thomas Kelly

The time is come that you should know my name. Or at the least, the name by which I am best known. Have you not already guessed the truth? Is my seeming so cunning?

Yes. I am called Bigby.

You have heard that name before. If not the man himself, then the work of his hands. And since this night is given to truth, and you have returned unscathed from the malice of Molag, let there be no more riddling between us. If you can abide a sober telling, I shall unfold for you the hidden cause of your perilous errand. Hear now the tale of the Flight of Fiends. Fear not. I shall be brief, for I am no minstrel, nor gleeman. Yet inasmuch as you have now set your foot upon this chessman’s board and played your stroke in the great game, it is meet and right that you should know the part appointed to you and how Istis weaves your fate in her designs.

First, hear what is written in the Word of Incarum. Therein the Bishop of Veluna showed me the whole tale in words brief and obscure. This is the bones of it.

When the gods yet walked upon Oerth, and the powers of truth and right yet strove openly against the One that Slumbers, that dread contest of wills waxed so grievous that even the blessed Rao—lover of peace and keeper of stillness—was drawn forth from his meditations and compelled to light upon the field of battle.

So long as his folk walked in fear of the Ever Serene and hearkened to his wisdom and sober reason, the light of Rao dwelt openly among them. But it befell that the Enemy Beyond the Bounds crept into the counsels of men, whispering fair words and false promises. Many of Rao’s flock turned aside from reason. Seeing this, he withdrew the light of his soul, and the world fell into the darkening dream of the Slumberer.

Yet not all would love that darkness. A true remnant repented and sought again the paths of wisdom. Against them raged unholy children of the Undoer of Worlds, haunts from the lower planes, thoughts spawned of his ugly dreams. Nameless terrors, fiend and foe, stalked the world. Dark lords and principalities abode upon Oerth. Evil sport they made of men, for they preyed upon them above all the races. Pursued them as the king’s huntsmen pursue the little foxes in the royal hunt.

The faithful wept bitter and dolorous prayers until, at last, the great shepherd looked again with pity upon his flock. The Lord of Wisdom took his own staff—a humble shepherd’s crook—and placed it into the hand of his servitor, the blessed deva Incarum. Sent him forth into the tumult that he might smite the wolves of Tharizdun (may his chains and manacles never fail) that preyed upon the flock.

Into secret and dreadful places where no mortal dared to tread, Incarum rushed headlong, bearing in his grasp the sacred shepherd’s staff. Straightway the fiends compassed about the deva, gnashed at him with venomed tooth, slashed at him with ripping claw, smote him with flaming lash, assailed him with grievous spells and bindings. Incarum lifted not his hand, lifted not his head, but endured it all silence. Vicious ravening beasts tore the wings from his shoulders and cast him bleeding upon the blackened stone. Incarum lifted not his hand, lifted not his head, but endured it all silence.

The scent of divine ambrosial ichor borne upon the air summoned the hungry vultures and every unclean thing to the feast. They poured forth, frenzied beyond wild lust. Greater and lesser, rival and foe alike, they swarmed about Incarum, united in the joy of their cruelty. Yet Incarum lifted not his hand against them, lifted not his bowed head, until all the grim host had gathered, pressing upon him to pull him downwards, to tear him asunder, to drag to deepest hell and nethermost abyss.  

When at the last the whole unwholesome host had thronged about him with no fiend absent, none lingering back, and at the last the deva stood solitary in their midst as a paladin in hell, only then he lifted his bowed and bloodied head and gazed about. A still and sovereign light shone forth from those darkened eyes: peace untroubled by torment and surpassing all baneful hate. And upon his bruised countenance there came a knowing smile, as of one who has long awaited the appointed hour.

Now the servant speaks the Name of his Master.

Now the deva raises up his Master’s staff.

From beneath his steady gaze none may flee. The holy Crook flares with light: not light of flame but wisdom sublime. With a gesture, this way and that, he divides them: devils on his right hurled screaming into many-circled hells; demons on his left, driven howling to many-shelved abyssal hole. Rank after rank they fall away from him, irresistibly drawn as waters swirl and compass about the drain until the last drop be swallowed by an open throat. And when the last has gone shrieking below, he closes up the breach, seals over the gaping mouth with many seals and holy sigils, shuts the doors and turns the eldritch key in iron locks.

This much of the tale is known to the learned—if you know the scriptures.

What’s that?

Know you not your letters?

Well then, if you are lettered, turn your hand unto the Book of Incarum and read therein. But if letters be not yours, then lend ear to the hymns of the College; for each year they chant the same high matter in Mitrick, and rehearse the saga in solemn strain.

Therein is told of that noble artifact—the Crook of Rao. A simple shepherd’s staff by outward guise, yet within abides the virtue of divine might. By its vesting are the fiends rebuked and driven forth; the spawn of Nine Hells and the many-storied Abyss are cast back to the pits from whence they crawl.

A small thing to behold. Plain wood, shod in iron at the heel, bejeweled by some accounts—yet vested with authority from beyond Oerthly ken.

A right useful implement, I deem it.

Five centuries now past, there arose among the Volls certain holy men who, searching though mortifications, hard fasting, and long vigils, found the shepherd’s Crook where it had lain hidden since those eldritch days of war betwixt god and fiend. Concealed in a hallowed place, sealed and kept from profane hand they discovered it; and about that ancient sanctuary they raised a fair city, calling it Mitrik.

Aye—the selfsame Mitrik that stands to this day by Rao’s favor and grace. There they kept the feasts; there they sang the Hymns of Incarum; there they spoke often of the Lord of Wisdom.

Yet I ask thee: where dwelt Rao’s wisdom?

Not, I think, among the men of Mitrik. For though their lips moved in prayer, their hearts leaned upon the Crook rather than upon the shepherd to whom the staff belongs. They gloried in the relic and measured their strength by its virtue. They deemed that, having possession of the staff, they held dominion over the power that wrought it.

So pride crept softly among them. What had been given as a shepherd’s crook they fashioned in their minds to a spear. What had been entrusted for the rebuke of fiends they purposed to wield in their own quarrels, to bend it toward their own designs and mortal wars. And in this they erred grievously.

It befell that when Keoland marched northward in strength, the Volls, being fearful, brought forth the Crook from its hallowed resting place. Before their assembled hosts they lifted it high, brandishing it above the muster of Devarnish. They supposed the sight alone should vanquish foes.

Did they indeed think that by such a token they might banish the soldiers of Niole Dra unto the holes appointed for the craven fiends? That mortal men might be cast down as demons by the waving of a staff?

Nay—not by that device.

Tavish advanced with steeled ranks and shattered the shield of Devarnish. The pride of Mitrik he humbled. He laid hands upon the spoils of war, as conquerors have ever done, and bore away treasure and relic alike. Thus the Crook passed from knowledge to a people who esteemed it not nor feared the name that wrought it.

Now as for the next part of the tale, I relate what I heard told in council among that august body called Circle of Eight of which I am a fellow and a member.